There are names for what binds us
by Lilith Morgana
Summary: He hands her his heart; she can feel the weight of it in her chest. Trevelyan/Blackwall. Drabbles and scenes; A lover's dictionary of Skyhold.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

This has been a WIP over att AO3 for months now but I've decided to cross-post it here, as well, in case someone prefers this place.

* * *

**amble  
**_(noun)_

.

They take walks together when the breach above them is a wide, growing tear in the sky and Haven still stands.

A quickly formed habit, like tending to wounds or getting your weapons in good fighting condition after some time out in the field.

Blackwall is solid and direct and Evelyn likes to think he finds her amusing enough to converse with; she asks him about battles fought and battles to come, asks for opinions and advice. In turn he poses questions about the Chantry, about her training, about how she thinks they can help Thedas. They share a devout passion for blades and the craft behind them, a fondness for poking around in the miserable and the mundane and beyond that they don't have much in common but distances are breached by the madness of the entire situation, by the way he glances at her as she walks by his side to gather elfroot for the medics or wood for the fire.

There's safety in numbers and there's _comfort_ in him. A rare sort of solace that seeps into her thoughts, rendering him different from the rest of the people she has tied to her cause.

It seems very simple, at first.

.

* * *

**.**

**ardour  
**_(noun)_

A while ago he would never have thought it possible for the battle-hardened, serious woman standing before him in the Hinterlands to become such a distraction from duty.

Not for a moment had he stopped to consider the possibility. He's too old with too little to offer and she's not his type - when he can still remember it - far from the simple, charming ladies of the taverns he's spent most of his best years frequenting. Thom Rainier always did like girls and he liked them warm, willing and wicked. The kind of girl that can make a man feel better about himself.

This one has a far greater purpose in life than giving a damn about the ego of some wreck under her command.

Lady Trevelyan is forged from hard training and determination, from faith in herself and the cause she carries; she is the kind of leader that brings a scent of war everywhere she goes but manages to hide that dark promise of _destruction_. She could make dying like a dog out on some remote battlefield seem enjoyable if she wanted, he's sure of it. Her mind is sharp, far more educated than his own but lacking his wretched experience, he wagers; she understands politics and war and religion and the price of all three. Like the Lady Seeker she is stern and principled, though far less unwilling to let her softness and vulnerability shine through. A good woman, he thinks as he watches her discuss supplies with the blacksmiths. Compassionate, fair, level-headed. The kind of person you can follow without doubt.

She seeks his company and he steers the conversations onto safe ground but he slips, Maker knows he _slips_ because he's been on his own for so many years that he's been consumed by the kind of unspeakable loneliness that marks you worse than that Fade wound on her hand, makes people look away. But Lady Trevelyan folds her arms across her chest and looks at him like she can't even notice.

And then that laugh when he manages to say something she finds funny – _endearing_ she says, as though she isn't half his age, as though he's a man who deserves the mercy of living. That laugh: deep in her throat and obvious yet so rare that he can tell she's a little surprised to hear it herself and it makes him forget himself for a blissful second, makes him forget why he's here, what he's set on doing.

Andraste help him, that fucking _laugh_.


	2. Chapter 2

**bareback  
**_(adj. adv.)_

.

Evelyn feels his gaze, strong as the sun that beats down on her forehead, the bridge of her nose. She wipes away sweat with the back of her hand and can't refrain from grimacing when the smell of horse hits her. Bloody horses. Their hooves could break through her chest and she is supposed to tame them, subject them to her will?

"Once more," Blackwall says. There's a smile in there somewhere and it lands deep in her belly. She can trace amusement around the corners of his words, amusement and surprise, perhaps. He must have expected a Chantry trained noblewoman to be better at this, of course; quelling the urge to explain and excuse herself she sighs and mounts the horse. It's the powerlessness in being mediocre that claws at her, causing her to bite down hard on a handful of curses.

"I wasn't meant to _ride_ into battle," she mutters and tries to adjust herself on the broad animal beneath her. Truth be told she doesn't much like animals, especially not horses, but she can see the thread of associations and assumptions that kind of confession will bring - that Lady Trevelyan finds herself too elevated to be among dirty creatures of the pasture, that she considers herself a noble soul far above sullying her hands with this. It feels important to her that Blackwall doesn't view her in that light. "I was going to be made invincible with generous servings of lyrium and the Chant of Light."

He hums softly in response to that but says nothing.

When she takes hold of the reins he nods towards her hands, then moves one of his own over hers to adjust her grip slightly around the leather straps. The weather is too hot for gloves and she feels calloused skin against hers, his broad palm soft against her scraped knuckles. The hands of a blacksmith or a woodworker, she thinks, full of scars and old burns. Restless hands that demand work. He doesn't let go immediately; she looks at him from her strangely elevated position but he doesn't meet her gaze, merely lets his hand rest together with hers and gives it a small squeeze.

"Better," he says. It's not a question.

"Better," she agrees. It's a small change but it does feel different, the lines of her body more aligned with the horse.

"We'll make a jouster out of you yet, my lady."

"Perhaps."

She looks at him as he takes a few steps back and when he tilts his head up again their eyes meet and Evelyn wants to stay in the moment, greedy for his company, for his attention. Blackwall possesses an honesty that only comes with experience, a way of looking at her that doesn't hide his admiration. She can see much darker things there too: doubt, hardships, a fiery sort of anger that seems to travel inwards, a brokenness sometimes when he doesn't think she's watching. But it's the unmasked regard for her that lingers, that visits her thoughts far too often and leaves a stark, starving echo in her body. No one has seen her the way he sees her, she is certain of it; she had no idea it would be so powerful.

He folds his arms across his chest and nods. "Now, try loping."

.

* * *

.

**benedictions**  
_(see: Canticle of Benedictions)_

Among all the days that rush by without distinction he marks a few in his memory.

His sister's death: flowers every year to remember, always, a life that never was.

His victory in the Grand Tourney: to remember, always, the arrogance and pride of youth, the insatiable hunger that comes from having nothing and being no one.

His promotion to Captain: to remember, always, what he threw away.

A carriage intercepted by an ambush: _Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still._ To remember, always, what he is.

Four days, marked as anniversaries to him alone. It's the fourth one that has caused more tavern fights than he dares to count, those first years when he would be drinking until he had rid himself of the last scraps of dignity and honour and could fall into whatever hole that appeared beneath his feet. Fights, quarrels, bets and brawls. So many taverns in small towns along the road that leads him away from himself.

Tonight he visits another tavern in another small town and he sits alone in a corner, participating in the kind of distant company he's grown so accustomed to. Some needs can be quelled with very little, he knows from experience. Listening to the awful bard's attempts at singing. Watching a table full of soldiers laugh about their latest training, coming up with lewd jokes about officers and serving girls alike. Before Blackwall, while he was still on the run, he'd walk up to such a table and lecture them about respect and duty, about selflessness and greed. Big words and harsh reprimands. Entirely too harsh, of course; they mean no harm and he has been just like them. He has been _just_ like them.

With a sigh, he empties his tankard and looks towards the entrance.

"Can I sit with you?"

_Maker_, _yes_, he thinks before he's even looked up to see who's asking. There's a sudden movement in the corner of his eye and then, out of thin air, the Inquisitor appears carrying a wine bottle and two goblets. She places one in front of him and fills it up in one swift move. _A woman after my own heart._ "Here. I owe you a drink."

Blackwall clears his throat. "Owe me?"

"You took a nasty blow for me today." She studies him intently for a second, seemingly concerned that he would have forgotten something like that. He had, but he doesn't tell her that.

"It's what I'm here for, my lady," he tells her instead.

"No. It's not. But thank you." The concern lingers on her face as she leans down a little, and he catches her scent in the stale tavern. Like a breath of icy air, a blow to the pattern made up of ale and sweat. A jolt of fresh, clean _life_ mucking up his wretched history and he can't remember the last time he welcomed something so wholeheartedly. "Are you all right?"

"No complaints," he says, thinking another lie hardly matters.

Not tonight.

.  
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* * *

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**beyond the grave**  
(_idiom_.)

"You gave your life," she tells him long before she understands how little he values it. "You sacrificed yourself."

Blackwall looks at her and there's fear in his gaze, actual fear that suddenly passes and is replaced by a relief that is so tangible that she has to swallow, avert her eyes. In her memory of the nightmare she has just lived through he dies for her, over and over again without a word, without blinking.

She is not sure if it reassures her or if it _should_.


End file.
